Barefoot in White (Barefoot Bay Brides), Page 2

  The vaguest hint of disappointment darkened his eyes, giving her a surprising jolt of satisfaction. “Hey, can’t blame a guy for trying. Lieutenant Nick Hershey.” He extended his hand for a shake. “You don’t work for the hotel, so are you one of the planner girls?”

  “The planner girls?” She coughed a soft laugh, mostly to cover the certainty that he didn’t remember her. The question was, should she refresh his memory? See the look of utter and abject shock on his face? Endure the questions, the litany of congratulations, and the embarrassment for both of them?

  “Sorry, that sounded demeaning as shit, didn’t it? I meant are you working for Misty as her wedding consultant?”

  “Yes.” She finally lifted her hand to slide into his, fighting a shudder when his warm, large fingers closed over hers.

  “And you’re…” he prompted.

  “I’m…” A girl you knew a long time ago. Not that she could blame him. Most days, she didn’t recognize herself. “Willow Ambrose.”

  “Willow.” He let the word roll around on his lips, tasting it, nodding as if he liked it a lot, smiling as though meeting her for the first time. Well, wasn’t that why she’d ditched the shortened nickname and lopped off her world-famous last name?

  “The pleasure is…well, I guess the initial pleasure was yours.” He winked, and it hit her heart like a red-hot spark.

  “Not the singing part,” she teased.

  He laughed, a low rumble in his chest that she knew could curl toes, melt hearts, and vacuum up phone numbers. “I suck, I know. But that’s how I relax. Does your job mean I’ll be seeing a lot of you this weekend?” The little bit of hope in his voice tweaked her heart, still not grasping the fact that he was flirting with her.

  “Depends on how much wedding planning you and the BTB are going to do.”

  “BTB? Wait, don’t tell me. Bride That Bitches?”

  It was her turn to laugh. “Bride To Be, but your version is often dead-on, too. I thought you and Misty weren’t going to be here for a few hours.”

  “We came from different places, and I got bumped to an earlier flight, and she’s…somewhere.” He put his hands on his narrow hips, the move accentuating his chest and pecs and stunningly cut abs. “Want to show me around until she gets here?”

  Could she…not tell him? The thought landed in her head with a thud. It would be dishonest not to tell him they’d known each other a dozen years…and a hundred and twenty pounds ago.

  Except, he’d known Willie Zatarain, the fat girl in Sproul Hall who had few friends and famous parents. He didn’t know Willow Ambrose. And by the way he was looking at her, he wanted to.

  The powerful, dizzying, irresistible pull of temptation tugged at her insides. This time, just this one time, temptation kicked her ass.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I’ll show you around.”

  Chapter Two

  Nick tightened the towel, even though it was exactly the opposite of what he’d like to do with this lovely surprise who couldn’t hide her admiration. He was probably looking at her with a similar kind of interest, memorizing the pewter tinge in wide eyes tipped with thick lashes. He was already imagining getting a handful of long, blond hair that was ten different shades of the desert, and tipping her head back to sample the sweet skin of her throat.

  “Can you give me a minute to get dressed?” he asked.

  Her nod was slow and uncertain, as if agreeing to that change in the scenery wasn’t exactly what she wanted. “I’ll let the front desk know to have Misty call me when she arrives,” she said. “That way she won’t wonder where you are.”

  As she walked out, Nick took a minute to admire her backside—hey, it was only fair—and give his own slow nod of approval. She was easily five-eight in those heels, and the blue cotton dress revealed enough curves to be his kind of woman, and enough toned muscles to be his kind of athlete. A smattering of freckles on a singularly pretty face said her sports were outdoors, and her creamy skin was nature-made.

  It’s all good, Nicky.

  Pulling a pair of cargo shorts and a US Navy T-shirt out of his bag, he mentally high-fived his good luck in getting on the earlier flight. Of course, he’d been planning to work during his spare time, and had hoped he’d have the afternoon to try to get past the latest sticking point, but this new development was too intriguing. Inspiring, even.

  And he needed inspiration more than he needed productivity. That’s why she’d caught him breaking the rules and listening to Z-Train at way too many decibels for a SEAL on medical leave due to severe hearing loss. So she was safely inspiring, which was even better than his favorite music.

  As he came around the corner into the living room, he found her perched on the armrest of a chair, phone to one ear. She looked up and met his gaze, long enough for a little zing of…no, too soon for chemistry. Attraction? Definitely, but there was something else about her, too.

  Familiarity. That was it. She reminded him of someone. An actress? An ex?

  That sense disappeared when she stood, clicked off her call, and put a hand on her hip. No, he wouldn’t forget a body that luscious, or a smile that…faltered at the sight of him. He couldn’t decide if she was clinging to professionalism because of his relationship to her client, or trying like hell not to give in to mutual attraction.

  Didn’t matter. He’d get past her defenses if he wanted to. And, damn, he wanted to.

  “You look disappointed,” he noted, unable to keep the bit of wounded pride from his voice.

  “Still getting used to seeing you…” She paused and then added, “Dressed.”

  He gave a shameless wink. “The opposite is easy enough to arrange.”

  “Not if it includes bad air-drumming and even worse singing.” She was teasing him, but he caught the stiff-arm in her message, and her air of self-protection.

  “Come on, we’ll tour.” She waved him to the door, but he slipped by to open it for her.

  “You think my air-drumming is bad, you should hear my air guitar.”

  She laughed at the joke, stepping into the sunshine that made her hair gleam like wheat stalks blowing in the breeze. “I heard enough.”

  “Not a Z-Train fan, I take it.”

  Her foot stumbled on a brick, and he instantly caught her elbow. “Whoa,” he said. “Heels might not be the right choice on these bricks.”

  “You’re right.” She gave him a quick smile, reaching down to hook her finger in the back of her sandal, taking one off, then the other. The simplest act of disrobing, but man, it kicked him in the southern region. “When in Barefoot Bay…” she said playfully, dangling her shoes from one finger.

  “Do as the Barefootians do.” He slipped off his own Docksides, and they left both pairs of shoes on the front step. It took everything in him not to reach for her hand. “Where to?”

  “You’ll get the full resort, spa, restaurant, and destination wedding tour later when Misty’s here, so why don’t I show you the beach?”

  “The beach is why I’m here,” he said as they crossed a shady stone pathway too narrow for cars, but just right for golf carts and people.

  “I thought you were here to be Misty’s man of honor.”

  “That, too,” he said quickly. “But I was hoping a little of the opposite coast might clear my head. I’m a California boy, but I guess your gulf isn’t much like the Pacific.”

  “Mmm.” She covered her eyes to shade them from the sun, getting a little ahead of him. “Nothing like the Pacific. The Gulf of Mexico is calm and serene. No surfing here. Just trolling in lots of gentle waves.”

  “Are you from around here?” he asked, trying to catch up, but she was making it a challenge, walking with purpose. And that purpose seemed to be to avoid eye contact with him.

  “Actually, I moved here only a few months ago to start the Barefoot Brides wedding planning business with two friends. We came here for a tour and fell in love.”

  Damn. No wonder she had her shields up. “Who’s the lucky
guy?”

  She lowered her hand, a frown pulling out her brows and then she smiled with understanding. “No, we fell in love with the place. Gussie and Ari—they’re my business partners—were on the board of the American Association of Bridal Consultants for a year with me, and during that time, we had to visit about fifteen different resorts.”

  “Tough call of duty.”

  She laughed, a sweet sound that lilted up with a musical note, floating on that air of familiarity again. Had he heard that distinctive laugh before? “I know, right? All those free spa treatments and sandy beaches.”

  “Beats what I did for the last few years,” he murmured.

  “You were in the military?”

  “Am,” he corrected. “Navy SEAL.”

  She gave the impressed look he’d long ago gotten used to seeing on civilians when they heard “Navy SEAL.” Over the past decade or so, his arm of the Special Forces had attained celebrity status.

  “Are you on leave?” she asked.

  “Medical,” he confirmed, mentally digging for another topic. “So, at the end of your stint on this board you got to pick one resort to work at?”

  “Not quite that simple,” she said as they reached a quaint wooden bridge that arched over a thatch of sea oats and led to a wide, pristine beach. “The idea of opening our own firm took hold early in the year, and then we started looking at each resort as a potential new home for our business. We fell in love with Barefoot Bay.”

  She gestured toward the beach, taking his attention to the view, which pulled a slow whistle of appreciation from him. “I can see why.” Before him stretched white sand and turquoise water, all glittering under a powder-blue sky and bathed in balmy sunshine. “Nice place to work.”

  “It certainly is,” she agreed merrily.

  “How’s business?” he asked. “Did the move work out well for you?

  “So far. We all had our own individual wedding consulting businesses, with different areas of expertise, so we’ve made a good blend. I’m an F&B specialist.”

  He took a guess. “Food and beverage?”

  “Exactly. Ari Chandler handles set design and décor.”

  “You need a set designer to have a wedding?”

  She gave him a playful elbow. The quick tap of skin against skin made him want more. “Have you ever been to a destination wedding?”

  “Actually, no. Only the standard church-and-country club kind.”

  “Well, this is different. It’s all about the atmosphere, the resort, the ultimate getaway, and, of course, the bride.”

  “Not the groom?”

  She angled her head. “I honestly don’t know Misty’s groom’s name.”

  “Steven…something.” He’d met the guy exactly once, at a bar in Manhattan, and all he remembered was an expensive suit with a phone to his ear.

  “You don’t know him?” she asked.

  “Like I said, I’m here as a favor for my buddy, Misty’s twin brother, Jason. But I get your point. It’s all about the bride that day.” He threw her a look, unable to resist getting this critical piece of information about her. “Have you had that day yet, personally?”

  Her smile was wry as she realized how thinly disguised that fishing expedition really was. “No, I haven’t.”

  He waited for more—like a question about his marital status—but got nothing. After a massively awkward beat, he tried something less personal. “What about your other business partner? What does she handle?”

  “Gussie McBain is our stylist, so anything related to fashion and beauty—dresses, makeup, that kind of thing—is her specialty. Barefoot Brides is an all-inclusive service for destination weddings at the Casa Blanca Resort & Spa.”

  Both their feet hit the sand at the same moment. “And this is our only stipulation,” she added. “Bride, groom, wedding party and guests must go barefoot for the ceremony. They can put on their stilettos during the reception.”

  “Nice.” He wiggled his toes in powder-soft sand, so different from the rough grains of Malibu or Santa Monica. “Definitely not the Pacific.”

  He tried to keep any judgment out of his voice, but he was a six-foot-surf kind of guy, preferably in a Zodiac with an AK-47 in his hands. This place was a lake, and the only surface watercraft nearby was a large pink inner tube.

  “No, it’s not the Pacific,” she agreed. “And I like that.”

  The comment pulled his attention back to her. “I’m from there. California. Ever been?”

  “Of course.” She gestured them closer to the shore. “But you have to appreciate what we have here. A billion seashells, pure-white sand, stunning sunsets, and the perfect place to”—she opened her arms with a grand and sweeping gesture of invitation, looking up with a mix of hope and hype and humor in her eyes—“be a barefoot bride.”

  He laughed, her charm drawing him in and doing a little to erase that nagging sense of familiarity that pinched his gut again. “You don’t have to sell me. I’m merely along for the ride. The decision to have a wedding here is Misty’s, not mine.”

  “Just want to be sure you’re on our side.”

  He almost turned his response to that into a flirtatious tease. He’d like to be on her side. Of the bed. But he swallowed that because something about the way she was looking at him made that sensation of déjà vu so powerful that he couldn’t ignore it.

  But how could he forget a woman like this? He looked hard at her, long enough that she took a few steps away, turning to give him a view of her back and all that flaxen long hair. He couldn’t get a read on her, damn it. One minute she was protective and professional, the next she was looking at him like…she knew him, too.

  “Come and put your feet in the water,” she called.

  Even her voice sounded…man, had he met her before? “I don’t suppose you were ever in the military?” he asked, trying to catch up with her as she ran toward the water.

  She threw a not likely look over her shoulder and marched on like getting to the gulf was the only thing that mattered.

  “Where’d you go to college?” Had she been at UCLA? She was probably about his age, nearing thirty, or a little younger. Where else could he have met her?

  “Oh my God, look at this shell!” She stopped dead and fell to her knees. “Perfection.”

  He caught up to her, intrigued by how intently she studied the seashell. He knew a little bit about people and a lot about women. She was dodging his last question, for sure. Maybe she hadn’t gone to college. That would be a sore spot, then.

  He cut her some slack and crouched next to her, more to get close than to see what she’d found. “Pretty,” he said, looking at the way her lashes fanned out atop well-defined cheekbones.

  She lifted her gaze and caught him looking. “I meant the shell.”

  “I meant you.”

  Her lips parted with a slight inhale, her gaze moving over his face with an expression of awe. Surely she couldn’t be surprised at his compliment—she’d probably heard better on a daily basis. Maybe it was the connection crackling between them, real and strong and very nice.

  Or maybe they had met before.

  “This is going to sound like such a stupid line,” he ventured, watching her eyes take on the shade of sky behind her. “But do I know you from somewhere?”

  She froze, didn’t even seem to breathe, staying silent long enough for him to reach for the shell but capture her whole hand instead. “Let me put it a better way. Can I know you? Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

  “Tonight? I…I…with Misty?”

  He laughed softly. “No, with me. From what I observed, Misty doesn’t eat.”

  She frowned and finally managed to get her head to move in the negative, even though something in her expression told him she didn’t really want to say no. “I don’t know. I have…so much stuff planned.”

  “Cancel it.” He gave her hand a squeeze, and she looked so intently into his eyes, he knew he’d met her before. But not her. Someone jus
t like her. Maybe she had a sister? Or he’d dreamed about her? Hell, if he believed in reincarnation, he’d say they’d known each other in another life. “I’m only here for a few days.”

  “Okay, Nick.”

  That pang of familiarity hit hard again, frustrating him deep inside, like when he had a word on the tip of his tongue and couldn’t quite snag it. “Willow.” He heard the hope in his voice. Hope that he’d figure out how he knew her. Hope that she felt the same attraction.

  She slowly nodded, as if to say, Yes, that’s me.

  “Don’t think I’ve ever known anyone by that name.” Or had he?

  “It’s unusual.” She stood suddenly, leaving him crouched on the sand, staring at the middle of her body. “We better get you back to the villa. Misty will be here, and surely you want to, you know, sing some more.”

  He came up slowly, using the time to really appreciate her curves and shape, brushing some sand off his knees. “She’ll find us. I want to put my feet in the water.”

  “I better get back to the office. We have so much to prepare for your weekend so we can wow Misty.” She gave a quick smile. “I can tell she’s going to be an exacting bride.”

  He ignored the comment, too focused on her. One thing he’d learned in training and on the hairy edge of life-and-death, you never swallow, hide, bury, or otherwise ignore your gut feelings or let questions go unasked. Life’s too short and information is power.

  “What just happened?” he asked directly. “You did say you’d go out with me, right?”

  She looked at him hard, searching his face again. “Um, Nick, there’s something I have to—”

  “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

  They both turned to see a woman marching over the wooden bridge, her long brown ponytail swinging with purpose, baggy white pants and a see-through tank top hanging off her slender frame. Misty was so different from her twin, Jason. She looked as if a strong breeze could blow her away, while her brother was the size of a boulder and just as strong.

  “Didn’t you ask to have her call?” Nick asked Willow.